


Faux Pas

by orphan_account



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, I will only make one spoiler because it's good, I've never posted on here prior to this, M/M, Multi, Natasha will own a strip club, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Drugs, Spideypool - Freeform, also let me know if I need to add or change tags please, human!AU, nobody has superpowers, please let me know what you think I crave feedback, so please forgive any mistakes that I make in tagging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-20 12:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6005338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which an elite socialite's nephew makes a flagrant mistake during a dinner party and realizes that, perhaps, toy-sized pooches and bite-sized hors d'oeuvres just aren't meant for him</p><p>or, alternatively;</p><p>Peter Parker has an abysmal habit of routinely fucking up and finds that he can no longer deal with the backlash and bolts, leaving behind the lavishly ostentatious lifestyle he was brought up in. Cue Peter getting sucked into a world he didn't even know existed, couldn't have even fathomed becoming a part of. Illicit drugs and street corners and someone who goes by Deadpool, oh my!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

"Oh, Peter," his aunt's voice is breathy, aristocracy oozing from her every pore. The monotonous clicking of patent heels on polished floor has him internally groaning, knowing fully that they were making his way towards his room.

His room. A dream for feet and maids alike, pristine and crisp. Walls painted a soft, baby blue are masked partially by posters and photographs strung up on lengths of yarn. Curled atop his bed, Peter feels the heat of his laptop warming his thighs as he waits for the inevitable rapping on his door. It takes great effort to refrain from rolling his eyes, but he does respond, almost sickly sweet, the moment his aunt's knuckles tap on his closed door. Peter stares at the door, watching the polished knob twist open before being greeted by the kind face of his aunt.

"Please do remember that I'm hosting a dinner party tonight, this time the Stark's are attending so do be on your best behavior. I would detest having a repeat of last time," silence follows for a mere moment and Peter's face flushes ruby at the memory. "Miss Gwen tells me she still hasn't gotten that stain out yet."

Peter wants to mutter that it was an accident, that it wasn't his fault, that the big, ornate rug became bunched somehow and he tripped. But it'd be futile, that much Peter knew. So he just smiled a tight-lipped smile and nodded politely, holding his breath until the loose ringlets of Aunt May's silver curls disappear behind his closed door.

Peter settles his laptop on his bed, jerking in surprise when the door opens once more, jarred by the terse delicacy of Aunt May's voice as she reappears, "Also, Peter, your suit for tonight is in your bathroom." The lines of her face, worn from her years, deepen their creases, crows feet crinkling at the corners of her gentle eyes. Once again the door clicks shut and Peter is left in silence.

At the chatter of her heels upon the floor, Peter sighs, slipping off the bed and padding over to his desk. There's no chair for him to sit on, never really needed one. Bags of extra materials, random trinkets he's come across over the years, are stashed beneath the desk, a wave of guilt cresting in Peter's stomach at the knowledge that some pieces still remain in their original packaging. It's not that Peter isn't grateful for the gifts he's received, he just feels bad about accepting them without anything to return.

It's sparse, the surface of the desk, or minimalistic as Peter prefers to call it. A small printer sits in the corner, tight against the wall. Stuck to the desk is a flurry of sticky notes, concepts and inspirations that Peter scribbled out for use at a later, undeterminable date. In an open case, Peter's pride and joy sits. His lips quirk into a doting smile, sweet and efflorescent, as he removes it from the shell of foam it calls home.

Sleek and incredibly powerful, the camera still manages to be lightweight in his hand. Draping the strap around his neck, Peter stumbles towards the sliding door that leads out to his personal terrace. Early morning it may be, but that is because sleep has never been truly known in his aunt's lavish penthouse. Peter would never complain about it though, he liked being up early, liked seeing the birds flitting about and hearing the silence just before cars began their incessant bustling. Peter could, however, find plenty of things to complain about in regards to other aspects of Aunt May's lifestyle. Even if he would only complain to himself.

The terrace is cold on his bare feet and the gentle breeze stings his face because it has a slight bite this morning, but Peter grins, ecstatic. Clouds of mute silver spattered across a sky of intermingling hues, rich purples kissed by scarlet and a sea of pale, soft orange that swirls about mindlessly- it's breathtaking. Nothing is really that special about the terrace itself, a few potted plants line the ground and the railing but other than that it's bare. A flutter of electric blue catches Peter's eye and he gasps softly.

Paper-thin wings batting in the air, a small butterfly lands on a bunch of blindingly yellow tulips. Against the backdrop of the morning sky, it's positively ethereal. Such vivid liveliness against the near calamitous sky, Peter could not have dreamt of a better subject.

Lifting the camera, Peter peers through the view finder, seeking out the tranquil blue of the butterfly's wings but is instead greeted with an abyss of nothing, black space. Confusion furrows Peter's brow as he tries adjusting the zoom, trying to locate any source of light. Peter mentally smacks himself when he finds that he left the lens cap on. By the time Peter manages to remove the lens cap, setting it aside, the butterfly has clambered over onto the terrace railing. Blue on grey has him internally groaning, fussily carding a hand through the disheveled mess of his hair.

"Fuck."  


	2. 1/stark light of dark night in my eyes

It hugs him tight, accentuating the boyish curves of his body while maintaining a formal look, Peter's suit does. Even in his bathroom, low lighting that casts soft shadows, it'd be difficult to call Peter anything but debonair in his current attire. Quaffed hair and gentle eyes, Peter smiles into the mirror and studies himself for a moment.

He might call himself a doll, made up to his aunt's liking, but he would never say it aloud. Aunt May has done so much for him, raised and cared for him, indulged his dreams. It would hurt Peter just as much as it would hurt Aunt May, were he to voice his displeasure. So what's the harm in faking it, strung up like a mannequin, for a few hours a week for the woman who gives him the world; Peter could stand being another faceless statue for a short while if it meant it would appease Aunt May.

The fabric is smooth, silky under his fingers as he straightens the collar of the suit. Sighing quietly, Peter steels himself as he reemerges into the party. Music fills the air, classical, and Peter can imagine the poor soul that Aunt May hired, sitting before their grand piano. Peter steps out into the main room, trying to avoid looking at anyone while appearing interested.

"You see, I actu-" Aunt May's voice is just as sharp as it is soft, so distinctive that Peter could pick it out even in a room full of incessantly chittering mouths. "Oh good, Peter, you're here! My, don't you look just dashing in that suit." She hums again and Peter can feel her fingers tighten around his arm as she announces to no one in particular, "Wouldn't you agree, just look at how handsome Peter looks in this suit."

The chatter around them drowns out the sound of Aunt May's heels on the buffed marble floor as she makes her way through the ebbing flow of people until she's hauled Peter to a small party of three that huddles together- two men and a woman.

One man, the one with broader shoulders and a vague hunch, has a marvelous smile, grinning and laughing along with his companions. He wears a suit, the material glossy and loose around his frame, an emerald handkerchief propped up in his breast pocket. His eyes are sunken slightly, a wave of mild depression masked by subtle calmness. Besides him, the woman grins sheepishly at the floor, soft golden curls brushing along her shoulders as wistfully shakes her head. Skin pale and smooth, her backless dress looks almost like crystals dripping off her body. She almost glows, surrounded by her monochromatic companions. Peter feels a warmth exuding from her, commanding while reassuring. The last male stands tall, oozing power and a stark superiority complex. Dark hairs gelled and set, not an inch of the man appears to be out of place, sipping from a long-necked bottle. A crimson handkerchief peeks out of his pocket and Peter wonders if it's worth more than any photograph he's every taken.

"Ah, pardon me," Aunt May's voice is fluty, a kind of voice she would adopt when she's being devious, wheedling with faux sincerity. The three people standing before Peter turn to face him and his aunt, blinking slowly. Aunt May doesn't wait for any of them to address her, speaking confidently and fluidly. "Mr. Banner, Miss Potts, Mr. Stark, I know we had a lovely little chat earlier, and goodness was it riveting. And I recall you saying something about looking for a photographer to take some photos of a new product of yours. So I thought I might introduce you to my nephew, Peter here, you see, he is positively magnificent at taking photographs."

  
"Mhm, is that so?" The tall man muses, a playful lilt to his tone as he regards Peter with glittering eyes of malted whiskey. A gentle elbow to his ribs from the woman makes him mutter under his breath, but he puts on a dazzling smirk, a veneer of professionalism that seems unparalleled. Peter can just make out a hand, firm and strong, set just upon his shoulder as Tony puts out his own hand. The handshake that Peter engages in is terse, but friendly enough for the woman to him contently. "Tony Stark, pleasure to meet you. I'm sure if you give your information to my lovely assistant, Miss Po-" Peter's grip hardens, Tony frowning as some recognition crosses Peter's face, speaking over Tony. It doesn't even register that he's talking at first.

"Aren't you the rich dude who builds nukes? The one capable of plunging the entire Earth into a nuclear fallout? I wrote a paper on him, don't you rem-" Peter's words tumble out of his mouth, a gushing waterfall of the wrong statements, another blunder. Aunt May's face is ghastly, taken aback by his tone, slightly intrigued but also notably irritated. He is unwilling to even look at the trio in front of him, having a strong inkling of what they must look like right now from the way Aunt May gawks at him. Opening his mouth to apologize, Peter is unable to find anything to say to remedy the situation before he feels a sharp, hot sting on his cheek. He yelps quietly, stunned.

"Peter Benjamin Parker!" Indignation sparks across every harsh syllable that comes out of Aunt May's painted lips, and Peter swears he feels like it's burning through him. There's eyes staring holes into him, Peter hasn't felt this inadequate in years but that doesn't make it any less painful. "Go to your room! Leave, I cannot believe you would say such things to this man's face, I am s- Why are you still here! I told you to go to your room, think about what you've done! Mr. Stark, I am so so-" Her voice dwindles out to nothing as Peter careens away, weaving throughout small packs of people with champagne spilling from their glasses.

Peeling up to his room, Peter shuts the door behind him. He felt ridiculous, tears dripping down his cheeks. Peter never imagined what it would be like to feel trapped inside his own skin, but he figured this is what it would be like- suffocating on his thoughts like they were dry ice erupting from his lungs. Running a hand through his hair, Peter tugs gently on the strands as he attempts to calm down. Outside, the sky dances beautifully with clouds of cream and Peter thinks that it must be so nice to have free range, to do as they wish. To be able to go where they want, when they want.

"Can't fucking do- just fuck up-" Peter mutters darkly to himself, cheeks damp from his tears, tearing off his suit and throwing it into a crumpled by his closet. He didn't know exactly why he is crying, some unidentifiable knot of embarrassment and shame, but he knew he is and that's more than enough. Peter chokes on his saliva, shivering in a pair of boxers as he rifles through his closet for something to wear, something that doesn't scream 'mug me.'

He decides on a loose, plain t-shirt that feels just a tad too big and a pair of a jeans that look easy to run in. Shoving himself into a hoodie, Peter runs the back of his hand along his face to wipe away the snot threatening to slick his upper lip. Trotting over to his bedside table, it's an easy check to find his wallet already prepared- money, license, a few sticks of loose gum, and an impressive collection of lint. Jamming it onto his back pocket, a low sniffle crawls out of Peter as he returns to his closet, sifting through various boxes until he finds what he's looking for.

The backpack is small and light; just enough for another set of clothes and some basic necessities. Peter is careful about packing it, folding the clothes neatly before setting them in the bag. A tube of toothpaste, a toothbrush, and some deodorant are put into the front zipper pocket, a water bottle is slid into the side pouch. Slinging the bag over his shoulders, Peter ambles to his desk. His fingers are delicate as he runs them along the smooth metal of his camera, plucking it from its hollowed foam home and wrapping the strap around his neck.

Peter stumbles out onto his balcony, eyes bloodshot and face flushed. The moon is but a silver sliver on a backdrop of a river of deep, rich colors- blues like a storm and purples that befit royalty. Night speaks so brilliantly tonight and Peter is happy to listen, eager to hear the pleas which cling to a sky steeped in sorrow, a melancholic mood he mirrors. The spire of a nearby building cannot be distinguished, only its darkened structure set black against the sky and Peter runs his eye, swallowing dryly.

Lifting his camera to his eye, Peter snaps a photograph of the building's outline, harsh and sharp, offset to the swirling night sky. A soft, breathy sound bubbles out of Peter and he can't tell what he feels like, only that he does feel.

It'd be the next morning that Aunt May would even check on Peter, looking to apologize for yelling, but she would only find an empty room and a messily scrawled note stuck to Peter's desk.


End file.
